


The Knight Shift

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Autopsy Details, Awkward Molly Hooper, Canon-Typical Violence, Comforting John, Comforting Sherlock Holmes, F/M, Female Friendship, Hurt Molly Hooper, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Good Friend, Mutual Pining, Passive-aggression, Post TFP, Sherlock is awkward, Sherlolly - Freeform, Suggested Future Relationship, This is How Sherlock Flirts, Violence against women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 16:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Love was a chronic wasting disease, as far as she was concerned.  She felt more kinship to some of the corpses she examined than the blushing beauties of romance novels.OrMolly navigates her feelings, colleagues, and uncomfortable male attention.





	The Knight Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tunes84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunes84/gifts).



> Written from Molly's POV. Intended to take place primarily in the morgue - though I cheat a bit here and there.

People didn't understand what she saw in him.

 

Nor did she, at times.

 

Love was always described, in books, as being this wondrous thing; butterflies in the belly, cloud nine, intoxicating...

 

Well that last one, at least, was closer to the mark.

 

Love was a chronic wasting disease, as far as she was concerned. She felt more kinship to some of the corpses she examined than the blushing beauties of romance novels.

 

There were times, especially in those early days of her infatuation, where sleep eluded and food was tasteless. She lost nearly half a stone within her first week of... well, what better term for it than “madness”?

 

She'd hardly improved in the years since. She treasured it – those days she saw him. Oh, but she hated it, a bit, too. A sneer or mocking glance could steal the air from her – leaving her gasping. A cruel, neglectful observation would destroy her for days.

 

She'd never wanted this.

 

She remembered her life before him. She remembered it as satisfying; fascinating with all the ways her scientific heart would thrill at intellectual puzzles; discovering the answers well before there were even questions. Her life had been utterly fulfilling and she'd never felt the need for more. Dating, Before, was fun. If a bloke had asked her out for a pint she'd easily say yes, of course, and never once think of it as anything more than casual. After all, it wasn't as though she had family members pleading with her to carry on the family line or some such nonsense. If the day ever came where some wild, biological need would rise up like bad Italian she'd get her eggs frozen and consider the deed done. So far, though, she was content raising a somewhat spoiled cat.

 

Dating, after Him... God, she couldn't eliminate the guilt she presumed a cheating wife must feel; _that_ thought enough to make her blush to the roots.

 

She hated that she couldn't escape his hold... ironic in that he had only, ever, tried to push her away. Well... no, that wasn't entirely true. Those times he'd needed her for something he would flirt shamelessly. Though, that had stopped, thank goodness, just prior to his... leaving. She still could hardly bring herself to think of those years. Seeing John – watching him fall to pieces while she held that secret in her heart...

 

She hated the situation far more than he ever could but that, too, was something he could never understand. She couldn't understand herself for all she held her torch highly aloft – letting the world see its glow.

 

Still... she never once wished she'd never met him. And it deadened the heart in her breast, imagining a world he didn't occupy; no long coats leaving wool fibers on the morgue floor, no faint scent of nicotine and musky aftershave to linger among the drawers, no gentle curls of raven dark to imagine her fingers winding through...

 

“Oh, I'm sorry!” Molly barely kept hold of her files – rounding the corner to run smack into a broad chest and tall form. Two hands reached out, quickly, to steady her and she flushed at the fumble. “Sorry...”

 

“Mrs... Hooper? Isn't it?”

 

“Ms., actually. Molly. Molly Hooper.”

 

The hands were still on her arms until she shifted back – pulling out from under their hold.

 

The man across from her smiled – spreading his slightly stubbled cheeks. “Of course, of course. You work down in the morgue, yes?”

 

“Pathology.”

 

His arms crossed and his smile widened. “Ah! Doctor Hooper! My apologies, I hadn't realized... Bradford Cole. I'm head of the Cardiology department. You know, my younger brother had wanted your job; once upon a time. Guess the better man, sorry, better person beat him to the punch, eh?”

 

Molly's teeth nipped the inside of her cheek. His temper was the stuff of furtive gossip over drinks or behind hands in the ladies. She knew, perfectly well, how upset he'd been that his brother hadn't gotten the job. “It's nice to meet you. If you don't mind, I...”

 

His hand rested against the wall, casual, blocking the small opening available to her.

 

“If I remember right, you were hired by Andy Perkins after old Doc Akin retired.”

 

Her arms wrapped a bit tighter around the files and she glanced down the hall towards the frosted door leading into the main offices. There were voices, muted, on all sides, but the two of them were alone in the hallway.

 

“Yes; he had read my doctoral thesis and asked for an interview straight away.”

 

Cole smiled at her – standing a bit too long before dropping his arm. “Sorry, don't mean to keep you. Um... Listen, I know this may seem a bit sudden but I have this boring lecture I need to attend tonight. I just had a brilliant thought. You could come along. Relieve a bit of the tedium.”

 

Molly smiled – lips tight while she clenched her fingers around her folder. “I'm sorry – I can't. I'll be working late tonight. Thank you for the invitation.” Without giving him the time to rebuttal, she ducked past him and through the far door.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

“Molly! Quickly, I need your assistance in the lab! Our murderer appears to have made a grievous error. While I examine these tissue samples I need you to autopsy these four rats.”

 

Molly blinked. “Uh... four rats?”

 

Sherlock thumped a cardboard box on the table – flipping back one of the flaps. “And a cat.”

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

She'd been walking too fast, she knew that. Nothing for it, though. She should have remembered the blind corner. Her heels stopped in time. The liquid in her mug, however, did not.

 

“Oh, Mr. Cole, I'm so sorry! Here – let me help...”

 

Pulling back from her, Cole swiped at the droplets of coffee soaking into his dress shirt.

 

Heat burned across Molly's cheeks as she held the mug close to her body – contents still rocking back and forth from their near collision.

 

“You make a habit of running through this hospital with scalding hot coffee, Ms. Hooper?” His tone was irritated but he smiled while he spoke. He reminded her of a snarling dog that wagged its tail.

 

“I'm really – really sorry. I wanted to get back to the lab before it got cold...”

 

“Why not just drink it in the break room?”

 

His straightforward question triggered another surge of discomfort and Molly worked her jaw around various non words before ducking her head. “I... it, it isn't for me...”

 

“No? Who's it for, then? Secret boyfriend?”

 

A titter, behind her, sent Molly back several steps. “Molly with a secret boyfriend? Now that's rich. As if she'd keep news like that to herself.” Gladys Beek. Overall a nice person and had never spoken unkindly of anyone – her tone held only gentle teasing and affection. “Unless we're talking about, Himself.” Her voice dropped to near whisper and Molly felt her face go hot.

 

“Hm? Who's that then?” No longer seeming to care about his shirt, Cole furrowed his brows at the hint of gossip.

 

Molly shook her head. “No- Nobody. I'm sorry, I really need to go...”

 

She ignored the conversation that continued behind her and, taking as much care as she could with the steaming cup, made her way back to the basement.

 

She arrived only a few minutes later than she'd intended.

 

The lab was empty.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

_...f I were you I'd stay out of his way. Cole has been on a warpath all afternoon.”_

 

Molly hesitated with her hand still holding the lift door. However, there was no more chatter from the receptionist's station so she entered the lift – relieved she'd managed to avoid the man. She'd seen very little of him, that week, and was grateful for his absence.

 

The chill of the lab – the faint smell of embalming fluid and bleach – were as welcome, to her, as the odor of vanilla and baking bread. This space was more home to her than her own flat.

 

Lifting her lab coat from its hook, she slipped her arms through the sleeves as she walked to her desk to check for messages.

 

There was a vase of flowers next to her computer.

 

She frowned. A moment later her face screwed up and she sneezed – recognizing the burn in the back of her sinuses. The last time flowers had been left for her had been on her birthday; a simple bouquet of lilies that her boss had purchased along with a gift certificate for Alyn Williams. These, though...

 

Orange chrysanthemums. The lilies had been fine; not triggering so much as a tickle. Chrysanthemums, on the other hand... Molly quickly covered her face through another explosive sneeze. And now her eyes were starting to stream, as well. Brilliant. There was a white card jutting up from the center of the arrangement. Lifting out the heavy note, Molly scanned the three lines of text, written in sloppy cursive, while fetching a tissue for her runny nose.

 

_Would like to get to know you better_

 

_Let's have dinner_

 

_Brad_

 

Mouth twisting, she crumpled it before tossing both it, and the chrysanthemums, into the bin.

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

Eyes irritated by lack of sleep, Molly sped her walk through the silent hallway. She'd been called in on her one day off that week; not because Perry was out sick or because they needed additional help, no. But because Sherlock had demanded it. She could-should have held her ground. At least he didn't try to bribe her with fake flattery any longer. It gutted her how it had always worked; even knowing it was all shit. Why else would she be steps from the morgue, stomach twisting for skipping breakfast, and damning the flutter at knowing he'd be waiting for her? Stupid.

 

“Ms. Hooper?”

 

Molly jumped with her hand outstretched for the door; squeezing her eyes through the drumbeat in her chest before turning around.

 

“Mr. Cole. Was there something I could do for you?”

 

There was a barely discernible flush across his cheeks. Any number of causes could have triggered that reaction but, given the missed button hole at the top of his shirt and the odor of his breath she was betting on alcohol. She was regretting her decision to skip a stop at Greggs for her usual egg roll.

 

“I wasn't certain you'd be in today. I had called down to the lab, earlier, and Mr. Dodge told me you'd been called in. My good luck, as it is. I was hoping to speak with you.”

 

Molly shifted her feet; battling not to check her watch. She bit her lip instead. “Mr. Cole, I really need to...”

 

“Brad, please. We're colleagues; I think it's acceptable to speak as peers, don't you?” He grinned; hands tucked in his pockets. “I'm hoping you enjoyed the flowers I'd sent. I'd considered roses but realized that might seem a bit forward as we've only just begun to get to know one another. Have you had a chance to consider my request?”

 

Back footed, Molly wracked her mind for a moment; half her attention in the room behind her and the body awaiting her evaluation. “Request?”

 

“Dinner, of course!” Cole laughed. “Did you not read the note I'd included?”

 

The note, of course. Molly hadn't given it a second thought after binning it. “I, uh... I don't think...”

 

The door at her back opened, then, and Molly side stepped rapidly to avoid it knocking into her shoulders.

 

“Are you quite finished? This corpse isn't going to get fresher with the passage of time.”

 

Cole, now the one off center, took a step away as Sherlock entered the hallway – eyes making a rapid movement between the other two.

 

“Mr. Holmes. I didn't realize...”

 

“Obviously; else you wouldn't have accosted my pathologist outside the doors to her lab.”

 

Hands clasped at his back, he raised one eyebrow while Cole's face went an even darker shade. Molly, however, wanted nothing more than to vanish through the tile floor. “Excuse me. Sorry...” Ducking behind Sherlock, she escaped into the morgue – immediately feeling her racing heart rate slow. She went for her long lab coat as Sherlock reentered the room behind her. Cole, thankfully, did not appear. Neither spoke of the confrontation as Molly donned her protective equipment and moved on towards the body, already laid out for her, on the slab.

 

Switching on the recording device, Molly peeled back the covering sheet to expose the dark skinned corpse below. “It is eight twenty-two am; beginning autopsy on Sydney Bale. Black male; thirty-one...”

 

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

 

One week passed.

 

Little reason to leave the morgue, Molly relished in the hours of peace – broken, occasionally, by a pestering detective and his far less socially awkward best friend. But, then, who was Molly to judge? After all, she preferred the company of the dead over the living most days.

 

Her current assignment had been brought in an hour prior. Gross examination included photographs, nail scrapings, swabs, and a preliminary conclusion for cause of death – namely – the large, square-shaped hole in Mr. Clarke's parietal region.

 

Still, Molly was not one to go with the easy answer and prepared for full autopsy. She pulled her face shield down and selected her favorite scalpel with the #60 blade. Most pathologists, that she knew, tended to prefer the #70 but she'd always liked the shape of the #60 a bit more.

 

Moving closer to the body, she was raising her arm when distant voices, beyond the wide doors, gave her pause.

 

“ _...ave you ever seen cheekbones like that?”_

 

“ _Nevermind his cheekbones – have you ever seen hands like that outside of porn? God, can you just imagine him in the sack? I'd save on batteries, I can tell you what!”_

 

“ _'Fraid imagining is all you'll be able to do, love. I have it on good authority that he's gay as day is long and I doubt a hag like yourself will be turning his pretty head either way.”_

 

“ _Cow!”_ A slurry of giggles followed.

 

“ _No way he's into the boys. At least not full time – oh shut up, you know what I meant! Don't you follow the papers? He was shagging that Irish bint – oh, what was her name? Janelle? No – Janine! Janine Hawkins. And before that he was absolutely mad for that dominatrix trick – called herself The Woman.”_

 

“ _Oh, please, you know those rags will publish anything that sounds scandalous. Far as I can see, he wouldn't know a woman if she sat on his face.”_

 

More giggling, but now the sound of footsteps. Hard clicks – heels. Molly tugged her gloves a bit higher and turned back to Mr. Clarke's chest – scalpel lowering to his shoulder.

 

“ _Well don't tell you know who. Poor thing has been pining for him for as long as I've known her. Bit pathetic, really. As if he'd look at that little munter twice...”_

 

“ _Hey, now, she's nice. Weird but nice.”_

 

“ _More like repressed. You think the Ice Queen actually has a warm heart under all those layers?”_

 

Breath catching hard in her throat, Molly had to pause in her autopsy – closing her eyes while her cheeks flared scorching hot. The words and steps faded as the group continued past the mortuary and on towards the ambulance bay – probably all heading out for a smoke.

 

Pushing up her mask, she rubbed a wrist beneath her eyes and did her best to shake off the hurt. Sniffing, she put her mask back to rights and moved her blade back to the pale flesh beneath her hands.

 

The narrow red seam opened beneath her precise cut. She was grateful for the silence that had resumed. Never had felt a need for music, unlike some of her colleagues, the light clink of her tools and the gentle shuffle of her own footsteps was a comfortable peace that she relished. Especially late in the evening when she was, often, the only one in the morgue.

 

“What's wrong with your face?”

 

“GOD!” Molly jumped – clenching her fingers around the scalpel to keep from throwing it across the room. “Sherlock!” Her heart was trying to hammer itself out of her chest – terror bleeding into embarrassment at him hovering in the shadows only moments after that little scene in the hallway. Brilliant.

 

He stepped out of the darkness, John at his heels and looking exasperated, as she turned away from him – determined to finish her work. “I'm fine. “It's... It's just allergies.” She glided the thin blade down the chest of the deceased man – completing the incision and setting down the scalpel to fold back the flaps of skin. The next thing she picked up was her automated bone saw. It had been a gift, last Christmas, from Sherlock and she blushed furiously as he watched her use it – grateful for the mask across her face.

 

“Your only allergy is to chrysanthemums; of which there are none in the room.”

 

Waving him off, Molly kept her attention on her corpse. “Someone left some in the lab last week. I binned them but there's probably some pollen still floating about.”

 

His response was expectedly non-verbal. “Hmm...”

 

He moved up to the table across from her; seemingly focused on the exposed innards though his reply suggested his attention was, at least, somewhat divided. John stood next to him; his hands in his jacket. “Sorry, Molly. I would have texted a warning had I realized he'd been brushing up on his midnight stalker routine.”

 

“It's fine.” The last rib hacked through, she lifted out the entire segment and set it to the side along with her saw. The next item she picked up was a needle, which she slipped into the open chest to draw a blood sample from the dead heart. “What can I do for you?” Molly didn't look up during the long pause that followed but continued her work – removing the organs and weighing them. Whatever Sherlock was giving his intense scrutiny towards, she really didn't want to know. It was an odd mix of relief/disappointment, however, when he hummed, deep in his throat – and leaned closer to the body.

 

“He appears to be missing the eleventh and twelfth rib on the left side.”

 

“Really?” John, too, leaned forwards to peer into the body cavity.

 

Molly had noticed that as well, though not an uncommon birth defect. He showed no other signs of abnormality, so far, and anyhow it had been the pickax to the skull that had most likely resulted in his death. Not a Sherlock worthy case given it had been his wife wielding the pickax and she was already in custody.

 

“I need a lung from someone between the ages of thirty and forty. Non-smoker, preferably.”

 

Molly sighed but didn't bother attempting to dissuade him. After all, she always folded to his requests – no matter how odd. And this, by far, wasn't the strangest thing he'd asked for. Last week's rats came to mind. It was, however, a little difficult given the number of organ donors occupying her drawers. “Give me a few days?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Phone me when you have them.”

 

A last look at the body and he spun on his heel – mobile already out and fingers working a blurred pace at the keypad. John, with a few more manners intact, smiled at her as he trailed after his friend. “See you, Molly.”

 

“See you...” Molly spoke to the empty room.

 

Their footsteps had hardly faded before she heard distant giggles outside the double doors, again. She shook her head and peeled her gloves, helmet, and protective gear – tossing it in the nearby bin before moving to her computer to catalog her findings. She'd confirmed cause of death – not that it had been any surprise. At least, not this time. Once her report was finished she'd close and add one more body to the icy hotel behind her.

 

The group was heading back past her doors – chatting and giggling. End of shift – she always lost track of time but she should have realized it sooner. Most of the voices she recognized... Angie, Dani, and... Lorali? She didn't know them that well but Angie was a heavy smoker and Dani liked any excuse for a break so they tended to coordinate their fifteen minutes. The other woman was new and Molly hadn't met her outside of office gossip. Of course, she wasn't much into meeting the broader hospital staff as she spent most of her time in either the morgue or lab. Meeting Jim had been, at the time, a rare happenstance – rarer still that he'd taken such an immediate interest. Well... she knew better, now, why that had been.

 

Knuckles suddenly slammed against the doors and for the second time that evening Molly bit her teeth around a scream while trying not to leap out of her skin.

 

“Molls! Get decent, we're coming in!” The round of laughter that followed took her all the way back to Uni. However, these weren't drunk students stumbling into the wrong dorm – no matter that they were acting as though they were.

 

Ignoring them, even as the door shoved open, Molly continued typing.

 

“Oh, hey, Lori – found you a fella.” Lori. That's right... not Lorali.

 

More laughter as they spotted the uncovered corpse. Molly filled in a few more observations – already frustrated at how late it had become and knowing that Toby wouldn't thank her for delaying his dinner.

 

“Is there something I can do for you?” The stench of cigarettes reached her as they stepped further into the morgue. She'd never cared for the smell – cigarettes – not even on Sherlock, though, with him, it was at least subtle due to his rare indulgence in the habit. She ignored the group for the next several minutes and they ignored her as well – wandering about the morgue and giggling while she worked. Finally, she punched in the last line of text and hit print – standing to collect the documents as they slid from the ancient printer.

 

Dani plopped into Molly's vacated chair – kicking it into a slow spin while Angie leaned over the corpse – making a face at the demolished features. “We're headed to the clubs and Dani's on the pull. We heard you know where all the blokes are so we thought we'd pop in.” Dani, by this point, was near breathless with giggles – her face bright red. With her ginger curls it gave her the appearance of a stoplight.

 

She suddenly wished she'd indulged in some music after all. The pauses between their words were a dead space filled with tremendously awkward silence. Fingertips tapped at the document in her hands. “I'm... I'm sorry but I have work to finish up...”

 

Lori rolled her impossibly green eyes. “Oh, don't be such a bore, Molls!”

 

“It's Molly.” She countered – feeling her throat tighten in frustration and adding an embarrassing tremor to her speech. “You should leave. Please; I need to close down the morgue, and...”

 

“Oh, great! You can come with us, then!” Angie grinned – smoothing a hand over her tight black braids and flashing white teeth. Her enthusiasm sounded, actually, genuine. Aside from her somewhat frivolous manner, Angie had never seemed deliberately unkind. Molly offered back the tiniest smile. It wasn't that she was completely opposed to clubs. She'd gone out a few times – though typically alone. There weren't a lot of opportunities to get to know the rest of the hospital staff given her job. And those she met often thought her strange or creepy and she'd heard more than her share of necrophilia jokes.

 

“Oh, Molly doesn't really want to come out with us.” Lori cut in; still standing across from Molly with her feet spaced apart. “You're hoping Himself will drop in for a little visit. Not that I blame you; he's a bit of a stallion. Never would have pegged you for a dogger, though.”

 

The other two girls were suddenly, visibly, uncomfortable; if not openly aghast at the crude remarks. Molly felt her cheeks burning with more than embarrassment. “I'm not – not waiting for anyone. I really do need to close up.”

 

“That isn't what Brad told me.” There was no warmth in the accusation. In fact, Lori had gone icy cold in a flash – all of her, admittedly, stilted humor had slid from her tone.

 

Molly stared up at Lori. Chin-length blonde hair and heavy make-up – barely concealing the dark shadow of a healing bruise beneath her eye. And she finally realized to whom she'd been speaking. Lori Bennett; dietician and currently Bradford Cole's mistress (if the rumors were true). Molly swallowed. So that's what this was about.

 

She tried not to bite her lip. “Is this about the flowers? Mr. Cole was just...” she nearly choked on the next part, “being nice...”

 

“You think he was being nice?” Lori tipped her head – red lips splitting wide. “Brad isn't nice. Brad is an addict. With me, he's been able to control it. I've given him everything he could possibly need. So I'm finding myself, truly, at a loss as to what he could possibly see in you.” She looked Molly up and down. “Because I can't imagine a little mouse like you is much of a shag.”

 

“Lori...” Angie put a hand out towards her friend. “Come on, just stop.” Dani looked between the two of them – all of the earlier glee had washed from her pale features; leaving her freckles standing out bold across her cheeks.

 

Molly started past the taller woman but Lori side-stepped; blocking her path. “I can't imagine what Brad would ever want with you so what did you offer to get his attention? His tastes can be... eccentric. And lord knows I'm game but an addict is still an addict and will slip with the right temptation. So, tell me why he would walk away from someone like me... to take up with a piece like you. What is it you give him? Does he like you on your knees or over the edge of a table?”

 

“Please go.” She hated that her voice trembled. Hated, even more, that she always got like this – small and defensive. While she'd never had many friends at Uni, at least she'd been respected. And working at Barts had increased that respect even more. But now, here she was, right back in that primary school circle of hell being taunted because of her hair, her skinny legs, her nonexistent breasts, her tiny features...

 

She glared at Lori when the woman refused to budge. The other two, however, had sobered up fast and were already at the door. “Lori, come on! I want to go before the rush! Let's just get some drinks and forget about this!”

 

Barely lifting her chin, Lori waved a hand. “I'll catch up. I just want to talk for a mo.”

 

Molly felt her heart drop as Dani and Angie pushed out into the hall.

 

“I've asked you to leave. Now, please go before I call security.”

 

“Really? Calling for security over a little chat? God, you are just as pathetic as everyone says you are.”

 

Again, Molly tried to move around Lori and, again, the woman pushed into her space. “No, no, no. We're sorting this. Right now. See, I've texted Brad and if he wants to keep his balls, he's going to come down here and explain why he's so hot to boff Mincemeat Molly.”

 

Molly was mortified to feel tears at the rim of her eyes. “Please just... just go.” She whispered. Her hand went to her pocket and squeezed tight around her mobile; brushing her thumb across the small buttons – an involuntary twitch depressing several. She was overreacting. This was her department and she'd be damned if this woman tried to bully her in her own space.

 

“I'm only going to tell you one last time. Leave. Now.” A good three inches shorter than Lori, Molly still pushed forward – actually causing Lori to take a step back.

 

It was a brief win, however, as Lori recovered her surprise and abruptly laughed. “Oh, my God... Oh, look, kitty has claws after all. Maybe I actually can see what Brad likes about you.” The false mirth soon melted, however, and Lori glared. “Well whatever special favors you do for him, it's ending, tonight.”

 

It couldn't have been coordinated better had it been written into an afternoon soap. The moment Lori finished her sentence, the morgue doors pushed open. “Lori, dammit, I told you to leave it!”

 

Now it was Molly who stepped back – wanting some distance between the two people invading her space. It was rare that she noticed the temperature of her surroundings – one of the reasons she bundled herself into heavy jumpers and thick cardigans. But, in that moment, her arms pebbled in goose flesh and a rough chill shook down her spine.

 

Bradford Cole was intimidating even when at his most courteous. Height combined with weight gave him a gravitational mass that could either pull one in or repel – depending upon the magnetic force at play. His developing girth reflected an appetite for rich meals and lots of scotch. Given his bloodshot eyes, he'd started early on the scotch.

 

“You are seriously leaving me for her?”

 

Bradford gaped, for a moment, before braying an off-center laugh. “Sweetheart... you're beautiful but you are a cabbage.” Lori had her back up, immediately, but Bradford only sighed as he looked down at his watch. “God, what a bodge...” His left hand clenched – knuckles flaring white for just a moment before they relaxed.

 

Molly's fingers pressed hard into her paperwork – crumpling the pages. “It's very late, Mr. Cole. Perhaps you could go so I can put poor Mr. Clarke back in his drawer and lock up for the night.”

 

Cole, however, only wrinkled his forehead as he took in his, now, furious girlfriend. Neither one of them made any move towards the door. How was this her life? Molly was appalled when a frustrated tear slipped down one cheek.

 

Lori, of course, saw it. “Oh – hurts to be on the spot? That's the least you deserve, you little slag-”

 

“That's it, I've had it! Both of you, get out!” Molly shouted – feeling herself snap. Lori was taken aback enough to clap her mouth shut but Brad only scowled.

 

Her blood up, Molly pushed past the tightness in her throat and pulled out her mobile. “I warned you. I'm calling secur-”

 

The device shattered against the base of the nearest autopsy table. Her hand was instantly numb but shock was the primary driving emotion. Anger was still washing through her like acid but something colder was leaking into the emotion – enough that a tremor fluttered in the base of her throat.

 

Bradford's face had gone dark red. He'd had more than just a few drinks – if his abrupt fury were anything to judge by. Lori said nothing – though she looked as though she'd tried to swallow an egg whole. She backed away from the other two; backed until her shoulder knocked against the door frame. Without a word, she turned to the side and slipped through. Her escape had gone unnoticed by Bradford.

 

And now Molly was alone with him. “Mr. Cole, it's late. Perhaps I could ring you a cab...” Her three steps towards the stationary phone were blocked when Cole moved around her – fast, despite his inebriation.

 

“You know, Perkins may have liked you, when he offered you this position. Never would have imagined the way you'd be running things now, though. He could have had someone competent – naw – but instead he has you. Not a stickler for policy – are we? Let anyone wander in here – pokin' about where they ain't needed. And there you are – moonin' after 'em like a gormless mare.”

 

Molly shook her head. “If you would like to sit – sit for just a moment, I'm sure I could find someone to get you hom-”

 

“Sherlock Holmes!” Spittle made a fine mist as Bradford nearly screeched – his face now going towards purple. He started to circle her while Molly eyed her exits; heart sinking when more snippets of chatter came back to her. Cole was, allegedly, in a fix with the hospital administration. Something about a physical altercation with a colleague. There was even talk about putting him on administrative leave; according to a few of the nurses.

 

A rush of clarity seemed to wash through Cole after his outburst. He stepped back – hands upraised as he smiled. And then he chuckled – shaking his head. “You'll just let him do anything he wants, won't you? You have no respect for your position – just sit back while he buggers about all piss and wind. You know he met me upstairs last Friday? Apparently he has free bloody rein over the entire hospital. Gave me one look and, without anyone asking his opinion, accused me of extramaritals. Right there in front of God and my own damn wife!”

 

 _Physical confrontation with a colleague. No... not a colleague..._ He stepped forward, looming, and Molly bit her cheek as she forced herself to hold her ground.

 

“Did you know she's wanting to end it, now? Twelve years and two kids all because of that fucking wankstain.”

 

His voice had softened but Molly sensed no lessening of fury in it. His body radiated hot rage.

 

She blinked another tear – her paper a fragile shield across her chest; noting the sound of quick footsteps at her back and feeling the rush of relief that someone must have called security in her stead. Dani, perhaps; or Angie...

 

“Please... Mr. Cole, if you could just-” White flash-bang slammed through her skull; jolting a sharp sound from her chest. Molly's body collided against the floor – her face a sheet of pain while her papers scattered in front of her. She tasted blood. Tinnitus muffled all sounds – muddled her thinking and for many seconds she'd thought there'd been an explosion. And then she realized what he'd done.

 

There was scuffling... somewhere... and then a shape was closing in on her. She cringed; hand blocking her face with the impending threat of another blow. “Please!”

 

“Hey – hey, hey, hey... It's alright. You're alright...” The familiar voice was enough to lower the arm away from her face. John was kneeling in front of her – one hand tucking beneath her chin. “Just me. Can you lift your head for me, please?”

 

She pulled away from him – her hands sliding across the floor towards her scattered papers. “I... I-I need to turn in my work. It's due in the morning. I promised I'd have it... have it d-done...”

 

“ _Get off of me you bastard!”_ More scuffling; shouting.

 

John was gone, again, but Molly didn't really track that – her fingertips curling on the edge of the closest sheet and sliding it towards herself. There were tears dripping from her chin but she didn't really think about them beyond noting that they were stained a pale pink.

 

“I didn't mean it – I'm sorry! I don't know why I did tha _-AH! You're breakin my arm!”_

 

Another sheet joined the one she'd managed to gather against her chest. She slid them beneath her coat to keep the blood from staining them.

 

It was several seconds before it came to her that the sounds of shouting had ceased. The last page was out of reach. She stretched her fingers but it had slid partway beneath the instrument trolley. She bent forward only to gasp when something in her left side sent up a sharp stab. Bruised ribs, more than like, given the way she'd landed. She noticed other aches, then, starting to give a voice to the chorus. Left elbow, also bruised – both knees scraped and the trousers on the left were torn – showing a friction burn and a few drops of blood, already scabbing. Her head throbbed and she expected she'd be feeling a migraine within the next few hours. God, she was going to have to miss a day of work unless she wanted to limp around the morgue looking like she'd gotten into a scrape with Dillian Whyte.

 

A shadow moved her way across the floor. John, she hoped, her chest stabbing with more than pain at the rush of imagining Cole coming back for another round.

 

“I'm all right. It's just a bloody nose and a swollen lip. I just need an ice pack.” She swallowed, relieved that she had managed not to stutter this time, and winced back from reaching fingers as they rested against her cheek. “It's fine...” She whispered.

 

“Molly...” Not John. God, _not John..._

 

“I'm fine. Please, you don't have to...” She was humiliated when a completely uncontrolled sound wrenched from her lungs – a sob and a whimper all twisted together and she mashed a hand over her lips to keep back the rest trying to surge up her throat like vomit. Nothing to be done for the tears, though, as they tumbled across her knuckles and slid down her neck into her collar.

 

But those tapered fingers were back, again; gentle thumbs brushing against her cheeks – cool hands cupped beneath her jaw; titling up her chin until she was looking into shadowed eyes all pale blue and hazel.

 

“I realize I'd asked for a younger subject for those lungs but I'd be more than willing to make exception in this case.” Molly couldn't smile at his threat as she was uncertain that it was merely words. Sherlock had a frightening history when it came to dangers leveled towards those he considered of value. And, with his brother's connections, there was every chance he could be running experiments on fifty-six year old cardiologist lungs within the span of a week.

 

“How-how... did you... know?” Her words dropped in and out between each breath – still pitched into the lower register. She closed her eyes through another swell of pain that pushed against her ribs.

 

He'd moved to carefully checking her other injuries while he spoke; long fingers pressing at the swelling skin of her knee. “You called me.”

 

“But I – I didn't...” Her mobile... she'd squeezed the buttons, earlier...

 

“No, that was an accident, obviously.” But there was no sting to his words – spoken so softly as his fingers left her knee to move to her arm. “You can't go back to your home, tonight. John and I will be taking you to Baker Street.”

 

“What?” Her eyes snapped open again; this time in alarm. A moment after, John was kneeling on her other side.

 

“Come on; up you get. Arm around my shoulders – that's right, I've got you.” He lifted her, easily, while Sherlock took a step back – his eyes going dark as they took in the room. She often wondered, exactly, the amount of detail he was capable of spotting. Blood and scattered papers – scuff marks from shoes – coffee stains and clothing fibers; bits of hair... Pain throbbed hard behind her eyes as she gained her feet and she dropped her forehead against John's shoulder – wincing.

 

“Mmm... Oh, wasn't expecting that...” She hissed and let the papers slip from her fingers and scatter back to the floor while she rubbed the heel of her hand across the ridge of her eyebrows. The blurring vision was bothersome and she blinked, hard, noting that Sherlock's face had gone hazy around the edges. The throb of pain in her skull increased as the migraine, she'd been concerned about, hit her full force. “I think I'm... I think I need to...”

 

“Whoop – sink is just here – that's a girl...”

 

Supported on either side, Molly hunched over the steel edge and vomited. Over a decade in pathology without so much as a twitch but one smack to the head and she's spilling her guts like an intern stumbling upon a massacre.

 

Coughing acid, she took the paper cup that John had filled with water and swished out her mouth – spitting several times while her stomach made a tight roll. Nothing more came up, however, and she nodded at the two of them to help her stand.

 

Okay, maybe standing was bad. She wobbled, violently, and Sherlock caught her beneath the arms – keeping her stable long enough for John to fetch her chair.

 

She carefully felt along her bruised cheek – noting the pulse of sharp hurt under her fingers. With the amount of pain she wouldn't be surprised to discover a hairline fracture to the zygomatic arch. Her fingertips were bloody when she pulled back her hand. He'd used his fist – right hand with the heavy caduceus ring. Well wasn't that an irony. She felt a wild bubble of laughter seep through the fingers she pushed against her mouth.

 

“Well I can see why your were grateful not to be slapped with a wedding ring.” She smiled at Sherlock. “Though if this is some sort of karma it feels a little... Mmmm... excessive.” She gasped – cradling her jaw though another bolt of pain.

 

Sherlock knelt in front of her – pulling her hands away from her face and pressing a damp cloth against her injury before resting his palm against her uninjured cheek. “Were karma not a fiction it certainly wouldn't visit undeserved cruelty upon you. This was the act of a reprehensible brute. The blame is his alone and he will suffer the consequences for laying his hands on you.”

 

The tears that welled at his gentleness were unwelcome as they were unstoppable and Molly ducked her head – pulling back and covering her face with both hands. But then she felt Sherlock's arms circle around her shoulders and pull her against his chest and she gave in to the hitching sobs.

 

His coat was a wealth of comforting sensations. Warmth lifted from the soft folds of wool; infused with all of the scents of his day. Fall leaves, minty shaving cream, formaldehyde, and, faint enough to be pleasant, the spice of good tobacco.

 

The wool beneath her cheek grew wet and she sniffed – lifting her head with no small amount of mortification. “I'm sorry...” Apologizing for the tear stains or the emotion she wasn't sure – it was second nature to speak the words.

 

Sherlock, of course, ignored the sentiment in favor of action. “John has gone to get a cab. Can you walk?”

 

Another look around the room and she realized a longer amount of time had passed than she'd been able to track. Her spilled papers had been gathered up and her coat was draped over her desk, waiting for her to slip it over her shoulders. “Don't we... I need to make a police report...”

 

Sherlock steadied her as she rose; though she was relieved that her legs were able to support her in spite of the throb in her skull.

 

“It will be handled.” Nothing more than that. Still, Molly was too spent to push and pulled on her coat – grateful that Sherlock didn't hover as she saw to Mr. Clarke before locking up.

 

As promised, John awaited them outside along with a cab. Full dark, now, the overcast sky had given way to a misting of rain. Gentle as the drops were even that soft touch was enough to bring a wince where they struck her cheek. John noticed, of course, and took her elbow to guide her into the back; slipping in alongside her while Sherlock took the front seat.

 

“Tip your head back a little; I want a closer look at that injury.” Giving in to his insistence, Molly closed her eyes and allowed John to gently feel along her cheekbone and right temple.

 

“That will want a plaster.” A moment later she felt his fingertips return to her cheek. “Hold still – this will sting just a bit.”

 

She hissed as something was smeared over the wound – some sort of topical cream and no surprise John would keep that on him, along with the plaster he carefully smoothed into place, given the company he kept. When Molly opened her eyes she _was_ surprised to see Sherlock watching her over his seat back. However, he faced forward the moment John was finished with his care.

 

Stowing the packaging from the plaster in his coat, John sat up straight. “I want to take you into the clinic tomorrow and get a scan of that cheek. We'll ice it tonight, however, and see if we can get the swelling down.”

 

“Thank you.” Moments later, another thought struck and Molly sat up. “Oh, God; Toby!”

 

“Toby?” John's forehead wrinkled at the new concern.

 

“Her cat.” Sherlock clarified while Molly dug free her mobile.

 

No less concerned, John only gave his flatmate a quick glance. “Are you... do you need us to stop by your place...?”

 

Molly shook her head – wincing again as the line connected. “Hi, Mrs. Owen? I'm so sorry – I won't make it back to my flat, tonight. Could you please look in on Toby tonight and give him his dinner?” She rubbed her fingertips together while her elderly landlady responded. “Oh, that would be lovely; thank you so much. No, I'm fine. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Okay; have a good night.” She slipped her mobile back into her coat. “Mrs. Owens. My landlady. She and Toby get along famously and she promised to bring him to her flat for the next day or two. She's really kind. She looked after him when I had that bad flu last year...” She pinned her lips together before her mouth could run any more wild. “Sorry. I'm sorry. You don't care about all of that. I don't know why I can't stop talking...”

 

“Hey...” John rubbed his hand on her arm and she gulped before letting herself sink back into her seat. “It's alright, Molly.” He smiled. “Makes a nice change of pace, actually. Sherlock goes days, sometimes, without so much as a piss off.”

 

“Piss off.” Came Sherlock's reply from the front seat. At that, Molly was overcome with gales of giggles – John laughing right alongside her. In the rearview mirror she could swear Sherlock's eyes were gleaming with amusement.

 

 

 

◦

 

 

 

Molly had ended up staying at Baker Street for three days. Her cheekbone, thankfully, wasn't fractured. However, she did have a mild concussion and John had been unwilling to let her stay alone at her flat – even with the dubiously watchful eye of her landlady. Whether or not he'd made a fair argument was moot – it was actually Sherlock who'd practically strong armed her into remaining. He'd even resorted to petty bribery – turning John's jibe in the cab back on him with the comment that John's conversational skills tended towards pedestrian _“so was it any wonder one must resort to silence in the hopes you'll uncover a topic more scintillating than the weather.”_

 

It wasn't until she'd settled in back at work that she began to notice the changes that had taken place in her absence. Cole was gone, obviously. Sacked the day after the assault and facing charges. They'd found a temporary replacement in his department; a woman named Jenn Holly. However, from the rumors, it sounded as though the higher ups were considering making her position permanent.

 

Lori Bennett was also gone; though, from the sound of things, she'd quit rather than stay around to be canned. This bit of news she'd heard directly from Dani and Angie; who'd taken to visiting regularly. They'd even started going out to the pub several times a week and Molly found herself deeply enjoying their company. Angie Cobb, as she discovered, was a former dancer – ballroom, of all things. She promised to teach Molly some steps some future weekend. She was also more than capable of drinking the other two of them under the table; not that Molly ever indulged heavily... well, save when England faced off with Scotland for the World Cup qualifications but, then, _everybody_ was drinking heavily. As for Dani, she worked in the pediatrics department and, little surprise, was a hit with the kids she tended. She was also both a gossip and a massive flirt and Molly was regularly left shocked, appalled, and in stitches over the things she would say; particularly with regards to Sherlock. Molly was not a gossiper and refused to speak of Sherlock out of turn. However, that didn't stop Dani from speaking, rather bluntly, about what she thought Molly should do with regards to the detective. Or, rather, “her” detective; as though Molly had staked a claim (and didn't that thought just make her cheeks hot!) It didn't help that those comments would linger the following day and more than once Sherlock had asked her about her flushed complexion. God...

 

It was three weeks after the “Lab Incident” (as Molly's superiors had begun to refer to it) when she was, once again, alone deep into the evening. The soft knock gave her time to finish her sentence while Sherlock entered – not needing the invitation to push past the door. That was the other change. Manners had caught up with him, apparently, and he hadn't startled her a single time. Not since the night of the Incident. “Just finishing up my findings. I'll be starting on Mr. Drebber in just a moment if you'd like to wait a bit.”

 

“Actually I... um...”

 

His odd hesitancy was enough for Molly to sit up and brush the hair from her face. “Yes?”

 

Sherlock held up a dark maroon bag from her favorite Indian restaurant. “I was... wondering if you were hungry?”

 

Famished, actually. She'd been so caught up with work she'd skipped dinner entirely; the last thing she'd eaten being a somewhat dry scone with tea around 4. “Oh... I, um... y-yes...” Molly, now the one stammering, stood for a moment, rubbing her hands along her coat before shrugging a shoulder. “There are paper plates in the break room. I'll go fetch them if you'd like to set that on the counter.” She left him to it while she went to get the plates, along with a few proper forks, some kitchen paper, and a couple bottles of water.

 

Arriving back at the morgue, she found the counter laid out with aromatic containers of dal makhani, rogan josh, and tikka masala. “Oh! That's my favorite!” She wasted no time in offering Sherlock a plate before scooping some of the spicy chicken onto hers and taking a bite – eyes closing as the creamy sauce coated her tongue and warmed her from belly to toes. It was only after she swallowed that she opened her eyes and glanced to the left – noting the curiosity in Sherlock's face. He blinked several times before lifting his brows.

 

“Interesting. I had not realized that tikka masala could initiate orgasmic bliss.”

 

Molly choked, coughing hard until she could twist the cap on her water and take several swallows – eyes streaming. The look of mild panic, on Sherlock's face, oddly, went a good way towards easing her mortification while triggering a second bout of coughs as she battled a wild surge of giggles.

 

Clearly uncertain if he should smack her on the back or phone for an ambulance, Molly waved a hand to indicate she was fine; taking several more swallows of water until she could force some control.

 

“Swallowed wrong...” She rasped; coughing again and wiping her eyes until the involuntary tightness finally began to ease. Once she could speak without sounding as though she were dying she pointed towards Sherlock's partially loaded plate. “Eat. It's very good!”

 

The expression she received back was priceless. “I think I'd sooner take my chances with a bottle of formaldehyde...”

 

Smiling at his hesitance, she added more to her own plate and took several bites; pointing firmly at his cooling meal until, with an eye roll, he finally gave in. It was scrumptious. To her embarrassment she ate nearly all of the tikka masala; unable to help herself as it really was her favorite. Taking their plates, Molly binned them along with the empty water bottles while Sherlock packed away the remains of their meal; plenty left for John who, as Sherlock assured, would not care that it had been picked through once, already.

 

“Tea?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

 

Preparing a cup each, for the two of them, was a needed break from the detective's presence. She was trying to come to grips with the fact that she'd just had dinner with Sherlock. Of course, she'd had meals with him, before, but never just the two of them. Certainly not where he'd initiated such a thing. She could admit that it put her off balance and she was trying to anticipate what it was that he wanted. Perhaps an entire corpse, this time? Well, she was willing to allow access but the body would need to remain at the morgue. Certainly John wouldn't welcome a dead human in their sitting room.

 

They didn't have loose sugar available but there was a container of cubes so Molly filled a cup with them before grabbing the milk with her name on the side. Making use of a specimen tray, she carried their tea back to the lab along with a sleeve of jaffa cakes. Sherlock made a pleased face at the sight of the chocolate covered biscuits and grabbed two once the tray was settled. They each prepared their own cups before settling back – cradling them in their hands and enjoying the warmth in the chill of the lab.

 

After some minutes, Molly shifted in her seat. “Thank you.” She worked her tight hands together around her teacup. “Not just... just for dinner but...” she bit her lips, “For before. For... for...”

 

Sherlock's cup rested before him on the narrow counter. “It was retribution... against me.” His hands pressed together but he didn't drop his eyes from hers. Molly shook her head.

 

“I don't understand...”

 

“I should have anticipated his desire for vengeance. It was obvious that Cole had already developed a fixation on you. In revealing his indiscretions, however, I neglected to consider that his revenge might put you in harms way. I am deeply sorry, Molly.”

 

Sitting straight, Molly rolled back much of what he'd just said to narrow focus on a particular point. “You're saying you humiliated him in public and, knowing you, purposefully wound him up so he'd take a swing at you... because he was flirting with me?”

 

It was a rare thing, indeed, to see Sherlock Holmes blush. With his complexion, his face blossomed hot pink while he cleared his throat – fingers twitching in his lap. “I... it... Clearly you were disconcerted by his attentions. It was also clear, as they say, that he did not 'get the memo' that his romantic pursuit was unwanted.”

 

Which raised another concerning point, for Molly. She squeezed shut her eyes; avoiding his glance. “How-how much... exactly... did you...?”

 

“One month ago he cornered you on your way to deliver a lab report. His cologne is quite distinct and he was standing close enough to impart the scent on your clothing; implying intimacy. However, given both his age as well as your history of partners it was clear the attentions were one-sided. Three days later, he, once again, approached you – intentionally causing a near collision in order to create an excuse for extended conversation. This was also a passive-aggressive tactic in retaliation for rebuffing his advances. He wanted you to feel a sense of obligation and, yes, I had observed this interaction. Did it not strike you as odd that I had requested coffee only to be absent upon your return to the lab?”

 

Molly, a bit overcome by the tsunami of information, could only shrug. To be fair, it wouldn't have been the first time. However, Sherlock had barely paused before rolling onward with his story.

 

“Upon your continued disinterest in his odious affections his next ploy involved the purchase of flowers. Not a romantic gesture, no, nor was it pure chance his selection would be the one plant with which you are violently allergic. It was, at this point, where I chose to intervene.” His fingers fidgeted on his knees. “It was not as successful as I had hoped. Rather than remove him his superiors, instead, chose a verbal warning while they dithered over the option of his ongoing employment. Meanwhile, his need for retaliation firmly in play, Cole opted to set his mistress after you – perhaps hoping to clean up two messes should she resort to violence rather than mere verbal attacks. His mistress would be fired and he would have caused you physical harm without implicating himself in the act. That Ms. Bennett chose, instead, to call him down to the lab was an unplanned complication. Having drunk himself to near stupor his reactions became... unpredictable...” Molly was grateful that he ended the monologue at that point; having no wish to revisit the awfulness that had followed.

 

Shuddering a breath, she picked at one of the biscuits left on her plate – crumbling the pieces between her fingers. “You know, sometimes I wish I could be more like you.” She smiled – though it was gone again in seconds. “When Cole started in on me; I wish I could have just looked at him and aired all of his secrets; all clever and sharp... Instead I just...” She swiped away the wet trailing down her cheek.

 

Sherlock pulled her fingers away from their demolition of her biscuit. “In spite of what I often claim, not all people are idiots. And not all are cruel, either. You still see the best in everyone. You even manage to see the best in me. You are brilliant as well as kind. Don't lose that kindness, Molly. The last thing the world needs is another Sherlock Holmes.”

 

She couldn't help but chuckle; and was warmed when he laughed along with her.

 

Molly was, admittedly, surprised when Sherlock cleaned up after tea while she went to wash up and dress in protective gear for her final autopsy. Of course, she'd never expected he would show up with dinner, either. Given all the trappings of a date, she had to fight another round of giggles that, of course, they would end up standing together over a corpse. Was this what romance looked like from Sherlock's perspective? Well, she was just as bad because this was really working for her.

 

She wasn't the flirting type, she considered, as she pressed her favorite scalpel into dead flesh. The first time she'd asked him to coffee had been mortifying. And, yet, she couldn't help herself around him. And it had been a long series of missteps and humiliation ever since; though he'd only been deliberately cruel to her the one time... and his apology had been immediate and sincere.

 

The phone call, earlier that year, had been horrific. Mortification at what he'd asked of her. Self-loathing at what she'd demanded of him; after it had been made known to her the stakes involved. She'd begged him to forget it had ever happened... she couldn't bear to lose the friendship that they'd built. Their friendship meant so much more than the romance she'd once fancied. She'd been willing to love unrequited. So... what was happening, now?

 

Sherlock was glowing as she removed ribs to get to the organs beneath. A moment later he turned his smile to her and she was unable to prevent her own grin, in return.

 

People didn't understand what she saw in him.

 

Nor did she, at times.

 

She had no idea what was happening. Knowing Sherlock, neither did he.

 

Maybe, she thought, they were just finally finding their groove...

 


End file.
